Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle

Our Arrival At Crick’s End

The car crept towards us through the wagon yard, the low throaty sound of the engine just audible over the whinnies and whoas of the horse-and-cart community. I marvelled at the sight of this open-topped giant.

Dudeney introduced himself with a bob of a leather-clad head as he held open the passenger door. We climbed in and lay back on the extraordinarily comfortable leather seats. Our conveyance would have been at home at a session of the Chamber of Indian Princes - gold- and silver-plated cars, cars with hoods of polished aluminium and bodies of costly woods, cars in purple, lavender, sky-blue, orange, emerald green, vermillion. Cars upholstered in satins, velvets, brocades.

While our chauffeur waited for the horse-drawn traffic to clear, he offered a detailed description of the vehicle, starting with the pre-selector epicyclic gears, working his way with calm enthusiasm to the worm-drive rear axle, tiller-steering and finally the four-cylinder water-cooled overhead valve engine. Siviter had named the Lanchester ‘Julia’. In return, I remarked I had read Siviter’s cat-and-rat fable and was looking forward to viewing Crick’s End electricity at work.

A young newspaper vendor leant over to push a copy of the Sussex Express into my hand (‘The Paper for Uckfield, Heathfield, Crowborough. Established 1837’). Even as I passed him a coin, Julia leapt forward with a mighty roar, scattering the last of the horse-drawn wagons. Before us bobbed our chauffeur’s helmeted head and shoulders, piloting the Lanchester like a Wright Brothers’ Flyer. A few more seconds and we passed beyond Etchingham to a broad ridge road. There we gained a small companion. Within inches of my face, a boy peddled hard and with intent, his heavy bicycle and wicker panier emblazoned Thomas Blinks Butcher in gold lettering. In a well-practiced manoeuvre, he obtained a precarious handhold on Julia. By this enterprise he achieved a speedy ride to his first delivery half a mile later, dropping away at a large, dark house set back in a laurel-clumped lawn.

The sweetness of scent enveloped us in sudden great balloons of air. Seated on our vehicle’s high bench we had a view over the fresh-trimmed hedges to either side. The run of unusually warm springs commencing with the new King’s reign meant the heads of the grasses and wild flowers were heavy with pollen.

Buoyed by the engine’s steady roar and the clean, fresh air, I looked out at the serene May countryside, at the profusion of wild flowers and early honeysuckle, contented herds of Sussex Reds resting in the cool shadow of the many great oaks, a tree so prevalent, our driver informed us, it was called ‘the weed of Sussex’.

I looked at the Sussex Express. A great rat-hunt had taken place on Broyd’s farm. Bees killed a dog on Mr. T. Davis’ farm.

‘Holmes,’ I said, amused. ‘Listen to this! ‘Astounding Doings at lonely Sussex Farm’.

A series of mysterious happenings at a lonely farmhouse in the Sussex Weald has brought about in the neighbourhood a firm belief in the resuscitation of witchcraft. The Walk Farm at Etchingham, in the occupation of Mr. Neil Armstrong, is the scene of its manifestations. A few mornings ago, when Mrs. Armstrong’s maid was at work in the farmhouse kitchen, she felt her back was being burned between the shoulder blades. She was not near the fire, and there was no possibility of a spark or live coal reaching her. The girl, who firmly believes ‘a witch did it’ was considerably burnt and had to be surgically treated. The first suspicion of something uncanny came on a recent morning when several golden sea-bright bantams were found in the fowlhouse with their legs broken. A watch was set that night, but though no one came near the fowlhouse, more bantams were found with broken legs next morning. The next day, when Mr. Armstrong and his family and a neighbour were at dinner, a flower pot on the window sill was seen to be wildly whirling around. Mr. Armstrong ran to the window, but there was no one near, and there was no wind, and yet the pot was still whizzing round. Pans jump up and down on shelves, chairs move jerkily across the floor in broad daylight while no one is near them, brooms dance, and household utensils move while being watched.’

At my side in the comfortable seat Holmes lay back with his hat tilted over his nose. ‘This stretch of road,’ I said conversationally, having done some cartography on the eastern part of the County of Sussex while Holmes cat-napped on the train, ‘is called the Straight Mile, built by the....’

As I spoke these words, our iron chariot ran out of straight road, rounded a sharp bend, and with a crash of its epicyclic gears came to a sudden stop. Close before us a hay-wagon had cast its load. Dudeney left us to assist in the reloading of the bales. The task accomplished, he returned to his seat. He turned to me and said, ‘Sir, you mentioned the tale of the cat-and-rat. I’m afraid you will be disappointed. Village children at play raised the sluice-gate and emptied the pond of all its water. The mill-pond is at present too low to run the turbine-generator.’

At this he set off again. I proceeded to give Holmes an account of the origin of the Sussex place-names. ‘Holmes, many of the Wealden villages end in ‘-den’. Did you know that’s Old English for ‘woodland pasture?’

He withdrew his pipe and answered, ‘I did not know that, Watson,’ and added, ‘I may soon forget it. I have no wish for my brain to emulate our attic.’

Undeterred, I followed up with a description of the South Downs sheep. I was deep into a description of the Sussex Red cattle and about to move on to the Shoveller Duck when I noticed Holmes looking closely at his gold watch. Realising I was boring him with such country matters, I stopped. Holmes laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Go on, my good Watson. I shall indulge you and hear more about the Shoveller Duck, if only to quiet you on the Sussex Red on which I fear I now know too much.’

‘Holmes,’ I replied. ‘No-one can know too much about the Sussex Red. You may find the Shoveller Duck a different matter.’

In this good mood we approached the historic Wealden trading-centre of Burrish. The Lanchester pulled us up a small curving slope and we were on an ancient High Street built when iron was king of the Weald, rich merchants’ houses on our left, artisans’ dwellings on our right. At its end our driver turned sharp left and we rolled down a steep lane. The view to the South opened up. Large coppices of sweet chestnut and hornbeam spread over the valley sides, cultivated for the charcoal which once fired the many now-lost iron forges of the Dudwell Valley. It made a pleasing contrast with the dims and drabs and slate greys of London.

The Lanchester descended until the lane flattened out at the valley floor. To our left two donkeys stood under a considerable oak in a steeply-sloping field, surrounded by a group of contented, snuffling, small black pigs and one silent, choleric-looking Muscovy duck. On our right loomed the grey stone lichened house. We had arrived at Crick’s End.